Christmas Comes Early For Santa

Santa stares at himself in his bathroom mirror, jowls hanging low and heavy, his hangover written all over his sad clown face. Sad Clown Nimrod, the drunken king of being drunk, the joke of the North Pole. Mrs. Claus has finally after many long and frustrating years petitioned the court to have their sham of a marriage dissolved. A sham, a shame.

Santa watches violent reindeer porn and jerks off. When he completes there is sweat between his rolls of fat. He doesn’t feel like crying but he is crying. His doctor has warned him. You need to lose weight, you’re not a healthy man. You need to avoid stress.

The elves are not virgins. There are brothels at the North Pole, it’s a dirty business. The elves who can’t cut it in the workshop still need to make a living, someway, somehow. Santa is too high profile to go to a brothel. How could he look a low-productivity elf in the eye and threaten him with a year at the bottom of the well if he saw him the night before at the whorehouse?

Santa is not really their boss. Nominally he is but they enforce their own frontier-justice if things go too far, and they always do. “Go too far.” Santa grunts to himself in front of the mirror, watching his swollen lips moving, a pair of pallid slugs. “On Blixen. On Trollop. On Slattern and Floozy.” The elves, continuously involved in an endless series of blood-feuds. It’s the old story, no one can remember what started it all off, and just when it seems like it’s finally over it flares up again, the screams of children in the night as homes burn in the permafrost.

There’s an old joke: “The North Pole, where the elves are ugly and the reindeer wear rape whistles.” The brutality of the world is conveyed through short declarative sentences. The truth is Santa doesn’t use reindeer to pull his sled anymore. His health problems prevent him from personally delivering presents. The job has been contracted and sub-contracted so many times that Santa has no idea how the presents get under the tree anymore. He’s not the only one to notice this, there’s grumbling around the elf union hall.

Santa Claus goes ice-fishing. He enjoys the companionable solitude of the other ice-fishers visible across the terminal flatness of the lake, huddled besides their dark circles where the line of continuity from water to ice to air blurs. The fishing line collects tiny shards of ice, plucking them right out of the air along its length. Soon it is encrusted in icy fuzz. He warms himself out of an old flask. Who gave him this flask anyhow? It has his initial on it: SJC. The booze in the North Pole is made from fermented snowberries mixed with carefully rotted seal blubber. It’s an acquired taste.

The night sky shines colors, but everyone at the North Pole is used to it. Hawaiians don’t freak out over every sunset the way tourists do, Pisans can’t get excited that their tower is leaning, and elves don’t care that much about the northern lights. Aurora bores they sneer, those little shits. They are hardened, opaque, they are not crystals capable of transmitting light. At best a clouded quartz. 

The eternal night of the wintry North Pole lures in no tourists. Santa would like to do some traveling himself someday. But he’s confused about his finances. These details are taken care of by a comptroller, a squat little gnome who Santa is afraid of. He and his executive team do almost all of the day to day management, not just of the gift operation, but of Santa himself. When he last brought up the idea of a vacation the comptroller gave him a stare. He’ll ask again next year.

Santa waits and waits for a bite. Taking little swigs of blubber-rum every few minutes. Across the ice field is some other redundant version of himself, mild and uncomplaining, filtered out of the thing he created by the simple economics of the new efficiencies: Automation. Decentralization. Logistics. Supply lines in squiggles and loops unfathomable. When he wiggles his line it sets quick darting concentric circles reverberating out to the edge of the imperfect circle he has carved out of the ice. For some reason they don’t ripple back. For bait he uses chunks of smoked reindeer. He chokes down a slug from the flask. It feels like it warms him a little less each time. He chokes down another. Wiggles the line again. Forgets what he’s even doing here, what manner of fish he hopes to catch, what he would do if he did catch one. Chokes down another slug, snorts and shakes his head. There’s a heavy vagueness to it all, and he lets his eyes close.

Time passes in this way and each time he starts awake it’s with a gasp of cold. The shiver of the stars in the sky tremulous and distant, but lending their sympathy to him anyhow. That’s ice in my beard he tells himself, but it feels remote, as if he’s telling someone else. He knows if he lets this go on too long he may get frostbite. Mrs. Claus isn’t around anymore to send someone to find him if he doesn’t make it home for dinner, to stare at him with that admixture of longing and contempt. He thinks about that expression, wonders if he misses it as he slowly freezes to death atop a fishless, unnamed lake. No one misses him for a week.

A Perfect Fit

Still sore because Master Kurt had fucked me hard that morning, I drove with him to the pet store. It was a Monday when I didn’t have classes and I was nervous about going because a few students worked there part time. But what would they see? Their professor with a male friend in military fatigues, bomber jacket and boots, somewhat gruff, not anyone they’d automatically connect with me. Certainly, they wouldn’t begin to imagine my secret enslavement, my craving for master’s cock. Nor would they conceive of the butt plug securely lodged in my ass. 

And the plan was to buy a choke collar. We found our way to the back between glass-fronted pet cages, one side for dogs, the other for cats, etc. At the end of the glass wall rose a rack of leashes and collars, suitable for all sizes of dog. Kurt started fingering the choke collars when a voice behind us asked if we needed help. I turned and blushed to the roots of my hair. It was indeed one of my students, Alaric, a somewhat shy, tall and slender lad with freckles across his nose and thick wavy auburn hair and green eyes. I have always fancied opening my legs for him, if I were free to do so.

“Hey, hi there, ma’am!” 

“Alaric? Don’t you have a class this morning?”

“Nope, no class until two, so I’m good. What are you looking for, ma’am. Can I help?”

“I’m with my friend here and he’s looking for …”

Kurt then blurted out.

“I need a choke collar for my dog, one it will feel when I yank it during training sessions, large enough to fit and around…say, her neck but not so large to slip off her head. I want heavier links. These seem too small.”

“Ah, you’re together then?” Alaric asked, staring Kurt up and down, clearly impressed by the soldier’s muscular body. And again, I blushed.

The thing is, Alaric sat in the front row in my class, his legs spread, a prominent crotch, fingers poised suggestively above it, watching me, pretty daring for a shy kind of guy, but I suspected he had fuck fantasies about me. To be truthful, I also glanced at his bulging groin. A shy student isn’t necessarily weak, and he can be a dominant fucker in his private life, powerful in many ways. I wasn’t entirely sure about Alaric who did give hints of what he liked in the real world, wearing scuffed construction boots that always attracted my attention, and stopping by my office, more than was necessary.

And I had encouraged him to speak and enjoyed how he sat, legs spread wide, a faint flush on his handsome cheeks. If he was inclined to tell a friend that he met me in the pet store, all he could say was that I was with a soldier friend looking to buy a dog collar. He couldn’t speak about anything else, aside from Kurt’s muscles, nor could he even imagine that I was the soldier’s slave, I tried to convince myself, my butt cheeks clenching the butt plug. Or, maybe he could, maybe I wanted him to imagine possibilities.

“Well, let’s see. Here’s an 18 incher,” and Alaric grabbed the chain off the rack and held it up.

“Looks small.”

“What kind of dog is it?”

“A mongrel, like a combination terrier and poodle, a fucking frisky, disobedient bitch. 

Alaric seemed taken aback by the language, as presumably customers didn’t ordinarily talk that way.

“And it needs a lot of discipline and training to behave properly and so I want a choke collar for sure. Fuck it’s hot in here,” and Kurt removed his jacket to reveal his torso in a khaki t-shirt and biceps and hard pecs, which I noticed practically made Alaric’s eyes pop out. I remembered how good it felt to wrap my legs around my master’s waist. 

“It would help if we knew the neck size,” Alaric said, a quaver in his voice, and out of the blue added:

“Are you a soldier by any chance, sir?”

“You bet, buddy. Can’t you tell by my dog tags? Why? You like soldiers?”

Alaric giggled and didn’t know where to look.

“So, you’re my professor’s friend …”

“Yeah, fucking right, we’re great friends, ain’t we, bitch? She likes soldiers, too.”

I blushed and noticed that Alaric also blushed when he heard Kurt call me bitch, as if Kurt had struck a chord or recognized some kind of affinity. Alaric smiled strangely at me. He had no idea who the “dog” was. Or did he?

“We might have longer choke collars in the stock room. Let me check.”

“Why don’t we come with you to save the return trip?”

Alaric hesitated. I kept my eyes to the floor.

“Customers aren’t permitted in the stock room, sir.”

“You can’t make an exception for Miranda here and her soldier friend?”

“It will only take a minute, if you’d wait here.”

“Is your boss around?”

“He doesn’t come in Monday morning until noon. Only the lady at the cash.”

And then Kurt placed his hand around the back of my neck and chuckled.

“Well, I hope you have a collar big enough to go around your professor’s neck.”

At that I raised my eyes to look at Alaric who reddened deeply, the smile wiped off his face, but a fierce light of recognition sparked in his eyes.

“Her neck is just the size of my dog. We can try the choke collar on her. How about it, buddy?”

He removed his hand from my neck and gently punched Alaric in the arm as if they, too, were buddies. Alaric paused and looked Kurt in the face, and then whispered as if he was doing something illegal but wanted to because he could get away with it. 

“Okay, if we’re quick. This way.”

And we followed him to a curtained door that led to the stock room. We stayed near the entrance while Alaric rummaged about the shelves and supplies looking for a longer collar. Kurt winked at me. Alaric returned with a thick, silver chain link choke collar, the longest he had in stock.

“Now we can try it out on Miranda’s neck,” Kurt said. “You do it, buddy.”

Without a word Alaric wrapped the chain around my neck and looped it the way you’re supposed to get choke collar properly connected, one portion of it hanging loose for several inches. I could tell by his eyes that he was enjoying the scenario. I could smell his peppermint scented breath. Then, emboldened by Kurt and my willingness to be used, he grabbed the dangling end and pulled to tighten the chain around my neck. I winced. 

“This looks good on you…. Hündin,” Alaric joked, his face glowing from the audacity of calling me a female dog.

“So, you think the chain would suit your dog, sir?” He yanked the chain again just for the hell of it to give me a little jolt, and the links pinched my skin.

“How does that feel? A dog would notice and obey.” 

He was having fun, I could tell. I was feeling deeply humiliated, and my student was getting excited by it. But that was Kurt’s purpose. And something else was beginning to bubble up in my consciousness. The humiliation was arousing and natural, especially intense because I was a professor being collared by a student. My juices were flowing. I didn’t protest. And I had long fantasized about Alaric fucking me on my desk with his exceptional cock, which in my experience tall and thin guys often had. 

“It’s an excellent collar for training purposes,” Alaric added, “don’t you agree, sir? Suitable for… for your dog? Do you like it?” This time he was directing his questions to me.

“If it fits her neck, will it fit your dog, sir?” He directed that question to Kurt who was enjoying himself.

“Oh, I think you’ve shown that it fits very well. Good choice of chain, buddy. Perfect. How about a suitable leash?”

“I’ll look for one now.”

He returned with a long black leather leash with a locked S hook designed to fit into a link of the choke collar. He attached it and then held the leash firm and tightened the collar. He himself was beginning to feel hot, I could tell by the heat in his face and the look in his eyes. There was a very evident bulge in his crotch. He wrapped the leash around his fist as if he didn’t want to let go and tightened the choke collar. My sense of humiliation deepened, but it also included sensations of exquisite pleasure as I drifted into the exhilarating subspace I fell into when dominated, drifting and obeying the demands of belt, boots, cock, cum, piss, flogger, whatever master decided, drifting like a beautiful canoe following the force of a strong current. 

I was bending to Alaric’s will. My student!! He could have kept me collared and leashed all day and I would have reveled in the humiliation, but of course I fought against temptation in order to keep my private self and submission to Kurt a secret. Kurt, however, knew everything about my fantasies about some of my students, for it is axiomatic that a submissive tell her dominant everything, including her secret, wildest fantasies and desires so the master understands and uses what he can for mutual exploration and satisfaction. Kurt flexed an arm, bulging a bicep, saying something about a cramp, only an excuse, for the action riveted Alaric’s attention and he let go of the leash. 

“Collar and leash are perfect, buddy.”

“I think so, too. Maybe we should try some other kinds of dog collars on her.”

Alaric then took a great and daring personal risk, obviously impelled by his own feelings.

“I guess you work out a lot, sir.” It looked like he wanted to touch Kurt’s bicep.

“Gotta keep fit buddy. What with being a soldier and all. Maybe you should come to my place one day and we’ll work out together. I’ve got equipment at home. We could spot one another on my bench. The bitch can watch. You work out?”

“I’m trying to…” and then, as if he realized that we were still in the back room and he had me collared, and I was secretly panting for his cock. Alaric flustered a bit, unhooked the leashed and removed the choke collar, his eyes all the while on Kurt and a sly smile directed at me.

While I was paying for the purchases, Alaric carried on a private conversation with Kurt. Kurt may have been playing with innuendos, but I knew he wouldn’t tell Alaric anything about us, at least not yet, however much he dropped hints and pushed the envelope to amuse himself with my humiliation and discomfort and Alaric’s evident arousal. Before we left the store, Alaric said that he wanted to have a private meeting with me, if that was okay and, as if inspired by the dog collar, he spoke so my master would hear.

“I’d like you do something, if you let me.”

“Oh, she will let you do what you want, buddy,” Kurt said, “she’s perfect that way.”

“I believe she is, I believe she’ll let me do what I want,” Alaric agreed, and, emboldened by Kurt’s use of the word, whispered in my ear, “won’t you, Fotze? And again, my face burned with pleasurable humiliation and still some lingering anxiety about exposure, and I almost melted before Alaric when he called me a cunt. Grasping at a straw, I was relieved that at least, Kurt hadn’t called me a cock sucking cumslut in Alaric’s presence, not then, not at that moment in the store.